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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399790">How Life Works</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bakerstbois'>bakerstbois (orphan_account)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 06:54:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,023</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24399790</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bakerstbois</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John writes a goodbye email to Sherlock.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How Life Works</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Didn’t re-read for errors. I didn’t want to read it again.</p>
<p>Please don’t read this if your mental health is even questionable. It doesn’t have a graphic depiction of suicide, but it includes a suicide note.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock,</p>
<p>I’m not even sure this email will send. If it does, it’s not like you’re going to read it, but I still have the inexplicable need to explain myself to you. Maybe it’s because I didn’t get an explanation from you. I’m sure Ella would have a few insights into this topic, not that it matters.</p>
<p>I’ve decided to kill myself.</p>
<p>I’ve made this decision before, but this time I mean it. Before, I still had hope. I still believed recovery was possible. I still wanted it to be possible. But now... I’m just tired, Sherlock. Tired of trudging through life, waiting for the clouds to break, tired of getting little glimpses of the sun only for it to be covered again.</p>
<p>Maybe recovery is possible. It happens to some people. Some people do get better. And maybe I would be one of them. But the wait isn’t worth it anymore. I don’t want to put the desires of other people before my own any more. I’ve stayed alive primarily because I don’t want to cause my loved ones pain. Would it be so terrible to be selfish, just this one time? To put my own wishes before those of others? To end the pain I’ve so needlessly endured for so long when there is such a simple solution?</p>
<p>I’ve thought long and hard about how I’m going to do it. Over the years, I’ve had lots of ideas. Never considered seriously, mind you, but the plans have always been under development.</p>
<p>The easiest solution would be to shoot myself, of course. But that’s messy, and the bullet might damage something else. I don’t want to bother Mrs Hudson with repairing something. Not that it would be that much of an inconvenience, I’m sure she’s used to it from you shooting her walls. But might as well cause as little bit of a disturbance as possible.</p>
<p>The next obvious method would be pills, but those have a notoriously high rate of failure as suicide attempts go. And I’d rather not die choking on my own vomit, not that I’d be conscious for it. But I’m sure the paramedics wouldn’t be keen on it, either.</p>
<p>Hanging could work, but I’d either have to leave the flat to find something high to hang myself from or get creative here, and I just can’t be bothered. I’m too tired and too determined to improvise a suicide. I need to know it’ll work the first time. Besides, I’m calling the paramedics before I do it so they’re the ones who find me, and it’s hard to guarantee I’d be dead by the time they get here.</p>
<p>So, then: a knife. A quick flick of the wrist and I’d bleed out in no time. I’m going to be in the shower, with the water running, so there’s less of a mess to clean up.</p>
<p>The obvious location for the wound is the throat, and should my family decide to have an open casket, covering it shouldn’t be too difficult.</p>
<p>I’ve set my will out. I’m leaving most of my stuff to Harry; she’ll probably throw a lot of it out, but it’s not like I’ll be here to care.</p>
<p>I have a blog post queued for the day after tomorrow. It’ll be my last one. I’ve titled it “His Last Bow”. A little dramatic, maybe, but might as well live up to the reputation you seemed to think I have.</p>
<p>Were you scared? On the roof? I’m scared. I’m afraid of dying. I don’t really want to. But it’s just the lesser of two evils at this point.</p>
<p>I feel bad that the people around me are probably going to blame themselves for not noticing. But I hid it very well. When you’re suicidal, you learn to fake a smile. But you would know that, wouldn’t you?</p>
<p>See you soon, I guess. If there’s anything after death, that is. At this point, I’m not sure which I’d prefer. If it’s more of this, I’d rather just blink out of existence.</p>
<p>John Watson</p>
<p>~.~.~</p>
<p>999 CALL TRANSCRIPT</p>
<p>OPERATOR: Emergency. Which service?</p>
<p>CALLER: Ambulance, please.</p>
<p>OPERATOR: One moment.</p>
<p>DISPATCHER: Ambulance service.</p>
<p>CALLER: I’d like to report an, uh, injury.</p>
<p>DISPATCHER: Are you currently in danger?</p>
<p>CALLER: No, I, uh... there’s a man in the shower, and he’s... there’s a lot of blood, I think—</p>
<p>DISPATCHER: Can I have your location?</p>
<p>CALLER: Baker Street, 221B Baker Street.</p>
<p>DISPATCHER: They’re on their way, I need you to stay with the man. Is he breathing?</p>
<p>CALLER: The ambulance is on its way?</p>
<p>DISPATCHER: Yes, but I need to— is the man in the shower breathing?</p>
<p>-LINE GOES DEAD-</p>
<p>DISPATCHER: Sir? Sir, can you— sir?</p>
<p>~.~.~</p>
<p>JOHN Hamish Watson, 40, of London, passed away suddenly last Tuesday. John, survived by his father, Hamish, and sister, Harriet, served  as a medical doctor in Afghanistan under the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. He was known for his love of rugby and beer. His services will be held next Monday at W G Miller funeral home.</p>
<p>~.~.~</p>
<p>HIS LAST BOW</p>
<p>Well, hello.</p>
<p>I’m sure by now the news has broke that I’m dead. I’m sorry for the shock this may have been to some of you, but to be fair, my blog has been fairly quiet recently. Not a lot of cases to write up with Sherlock gone, and no one wants to hear about my days at the surgery.</p>
<p>Anyway, I just wanted to tell you all goodbye. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it individually, but there are quite a few of you, and some of you I’ve never really met, and I would feel bad that my first conversation with you would be to tell you I’ve offed myself.</p>
<p>I ask that you give my family and friends privacy, not that I’m anyone important anyway. But having been put through the grieving process while under public speculation, I would never want it for anyone else.</p>
<p>Well, then. Guess that’s it. My last blog post. I never expected anyone to read it. I never expected to live long enough to get an audience. That’s how life works, I suppose.</p>
<p>John</p>
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